random rants

Oh, Woe to Me!

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I Am Depressed

Lately, I’ve been fucking depressed.

I dunno what about, either. Well, I kinda know. Ready for some cry-babying?

This move to LA was really hard. Moving is really hard, but you already know that. And adding to it the fact that I didn’t really want to relocate to LA…well, that made it suck balls.

Swiss Balls.

Ever move somewhere you really don’t wanna be? In my case, I always had an escape route out of LA, and that was back home. Now, LA is home. And before you go bustin’ my balls with your comments on my waa-waa-waaing, I know there’s a lot of shittier places to call home other than LA.

Gary, Indiana, immediately comes to mind. I don’t care if The Jackson 5 hail from that god awful place, it’s still a Mighty Shit Hole. In fact, might as well lump in any city in the Midwest…including Chicago. I’d go as far as to say anyplace South of the Mason-Dixon line sucks, too. Anywhere in the northeast — sans New York City — sucks. Texas? Ugh. New Mexico? Ew. Colorado might be nice, but it snows there. In fact, anywhere north is too cold. Seattle can eat my ass; however, Portland is very cool, and I’d live there…during the summer months, anyways.

I miss San Francisco a lot, but there’s no work in SF…or Portland. Especially not in my highly specialized field of creating smut from scratch.

I dunno…maybe LA isn’t so bad. Amoeba is here, and so is Adrianna Nicole, and my pal Ira’s used book store; there’s Roscoe’s House of Chicken and Waffles, and The Vista (where Ed Wood, Jr., kept an office above the theater), and Intelligentsia and La Luz de Jesus; there’s some really cool museums I need to check out, and, I dunno…maybe I’ll learn to surf.

I’m bummed cause I also lost a very dear friend (and a partner in crime) recently…someone really special. Nope — no deaths to report — just some Tom Foolery that went awry.

Tom Foolery that went way awry.

Do you think — after it’s all said and done — something can be salvaged between us? Does anyone apologize for anything anymore? (This includes me, by the way.) Does anyone ever forgive anyone anymore? (This includes me, by the way.) Does anyone tell The Truth anymore? (This includes me, by the way.)

God damn relationships. I swear sometimes it’s easier to just buy a dog and be done with them.

Well, almost all of them.

I’m also really bummed cause I also lost an old friend recently. This one really did die. He wasn’t feeling very well, and he went to the hospital, but he didn’t have insurance, and he was afraid of more bills…so he went home and died. Alone. In his tiny apartment in the Haight. His landlord found him 4 days after he passed, and sometimes I worry a lot that’s how I’ll die — alone.

Maybe I need to be medicated.

I thought about that, too. Any fun meds you can recommend? I once lived next to a girl named Lisa Joy. That was really her name. Totally ironic, too, cause Lisa Joy was sad almost all the time. She told me once, “You know, Billy, they should just pump Prozac into the water. It would make the world a better place!”

To me, Prozac seems so 1991. Maybe that’s cause I lived next to Lisa Joy in 1991.

What else is there…besides Prozac, I mean? All I need is a little something to take the edge off…you know…so I can at least concentrate on a simple conversation with a friend, or not want to walk off the next bridge I cross…or walk into traffic.

I hear Xanax bars are fun, but they terrify me. I managed to eat 1/2 of one, once; nothing really significant happened. I slept really well, and I didn’t get hooked! I woulda ate the other half, but the next day a whore stole it — right off my desk — after we got done checking her AIM test before a scene.

Fuckin’ whores.

Maybe I need to stop making smut. Find Jesus. Start doing push-ups and knee bends every morning. Some sit-ups, too. Then, make a resumé and find and a good job with The State — or Big Corporation — just to reap all those wonderful benefits: 10 days a year of paid vacation, health and dental, and a suit and tie.

You didn’t see me sit back in my chair, reread that last paragraph, and wonder what the fuck am I thinking? but I really did just that. Jesus and Corporate jobs and suits and ties frighten me more than any addictions to prescription drugs.

A suits and a tie…oh man.

I talked to my very best friend the other day. We’ve known each other since about 1978. In fact, it was his Biff’s older brother — and his collection of Swedish Erotica Super 8 film loops — that introduced me to girls getting facials. Big, messy facials.

And I haven’t been the same, since.

His name is Bif, and he’s Corporate all the way. Suit and tie. 9 to 5. Wife and kids. The whole she-bang.

Half way through our conversation, he said, “dude, you’re my hero! Keep making porn!!”

Funny thing is, he’s mine; any one, I think, who can be a good family man, wins my Hero Vote.

OK — enough is enough. No more cry-babying here! Instead, I’m gonna go make a PB & J and put on side one of Meat is Murder — specifically for “I Want The One I Can’t Have” — and then I’ll start contemplating a future blog: “They’re all Tender Young Hooligans”.

Cause there’s nothing better than a little Morissey when you’re really down in the dumps.

Random Thoughts

I Am a Los Angelino. Rejoice.

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Los Angeles

Los Angeles.

My new Home.

Los Angeles. The City of Angels — a city full of devils.

Laugh all you want, but I’m serious. And they’re devils just as you’d picture them, too: sharp horns on a red, round head; long, pointy tails; pitchforks and hooves; menacing, fire-filled eyes. They’re all over the place: on the 101 (usually after it’s been turned into a parking lot, but not always), and they’re in parking lots that are way too full…aggressively searching for that last empty spot, and they’re hovering outside convenience stores, gas stations, banks, and the shopping malls.

Oh, the demons are everywhere!

And back home every thing’s safe and warm.

For the last three years I’ve been commuting to LA — hour by plane, six hours by car. It started with Spring Thomas. We simply couldn’t find any good black guys for her to slut around with, so we started driving out to LA, where Black Men roam free. She’d fly home after a couple days of wild, crazy sex, and I’d stick around and shoot for Blacks on Blondes or scout for the newest, filthiest gloryhole.

And it all just went downhill from there: first, a few days in LA, and the rest home…then 10 days LA, 20 days Home…then 20 days LA, 10 Home…and now, it’s almost like I have to find an excuse to go Home. Well, not really an excuse, just more of needed a break from work.

Meanwhile, Home turned into an empty dust bowl, as my cats — The Fluffy Sisters — stood watch. When I’d return home, Ginger Fluffy would meow, “Welcome Home, Stranger! How did it go making all that smut?!” and Sunshine Fluffy would just kinda scoff at me, cause she was pissed.

She still is.

I don’t like LA. I find almost nothing redeeming about this place. Sure, there’s cool things to do…if you don’t mind doing them with 10 million other people. For me, LA’s always been a place to go to for a weekend to see something; I can’t believe I now call this place home.

But the Smut Industry is here. Most of it, anyway. The internet’s really put a dent into LA’s claim to being the be-all, end-all to Porno Land, but it’s still hanging tough.

Somewhat tough.

Jobs aren’t as abundant as they were a few years ago. It seemed to me that, in 2004, every girl working the circuit made $15K a month; now, that ain’t the case. Male talent is blowing my phone up looking for work, too. Definitely a weird time to be employed in Porno Land.

My new pad is littered with 1/2 filled boxes, and there’s papers and unopened mails and all sorts of shit strewn about. Maggie likes sleeping in the front yard way more than being inside the new place, and that makes me worried.

But I’m here, and so is all my shit, and, for the most part, it all fit in to the new place, and it’s close to becoming completely functional.

Maybe I will too, someday.

Los Angeles and Satan

Super Fun E-mails

Super Fun E-Mails: “I Don’t Believe You!”

3 Comments

Jada Stevens

Dutch Dave writes:

Mr. Watson,

Although I would never question your veracity, I question your statement regarding the existence of glory holes at least as far as heterosexual, taking all comers variety of glory holes.

I don’t dispute that gay glory holes exist, the inventive, unsanitary risk taking of our gay brothers always astounds yet never surprises. However the glory holes you photograph, although entertaining, strains my credulity and lacks a feeling of verisimilitude even while it tickles my risibilities.

The well know requirement for blood testing of all participants in what is a fantasy scenario performed for money raises doubts. Its a job and it seems unlikely a pro would risk unemployment even for what is undoubtedly well remunerated work. They would be unemployable while being re-tested or being treated for any STDs they acquired. Perhaps there’s a
fetish site I am unfamiliar with: Amateurs on antibiotic IV drips after a visit to a public glory hole.

A dividing wall in LA require at least a 2×4 thickness plus two thicknesses of 5/8 dry wall for a total thickness of 5 inches. As you have noted most dicks come in the 6 inch range which leaves a total of 1 inch of penis available for the girl. Even one of your fabled Mandingo love bludgeons would only present a paltry 3 to 6 inches through the standard wall.

I suppose you could knock out one side of the drywall and if the male performer could squeeze his pelvis between the the 16oc studs on either side he could present more cock although this begs the question of how do you find black guys with big dicks and narrow hips, which begs the question if such a person would even be interested in heterosexual glory holes at least as a pitcher.

The amount of rough abrasive material around the tender skin in that area calls into question whether a man would tolerate much contact with the hole. If you’ve ever hung dry wall, you know what a mess it makes of your hands, imagine getting that dust on the head of your penis, no amount of udder balm is going to sooth it. I see you protect the edges with duct tape, the medical and cosmetics industries first choice for effective, comfortable, skin protection, but the simple act of cutting and presumably the occasional widening of the hole for assorted comers means a dusty, irritating work place for all comers.

This of course leads us to the question of height of the hole. People come in different sizes and while men will make generous accommodations to facilitate fellatio, what about seven footers or dwarfs? I see only one hole in these glory holes you present, if its a public glory hole, open to all comers, someone outside the normal range of human height must occasionally stroll by and think: “Ah a glory hole, just the thing to pass a rainy afternoon! Oh drat, I am far too tall for the hole I have to use if the attractive adolescent girl on the other side of the wall is to accommodate me. I know! I’ll punch another hole in the wall so myself and my big and tall brothers can also enjoy the young lady’s courtesy.”

Based on the fact that you can take head to toe shots of the glory holee as she scampers around getting naked and warming up for some quality knees time with a glory holer, even if you use a perspective corrected 24mm lens, the glory hole has to be about 15 or 20 feet square to accommodate a photographer and his lights which means its not so much a glory hole as a glory arena. It seems a little architecturally spacious for a room devoted to a girl’s journey of discovery to see how many dicks she can drain at a sitting.

I won’t bring up the commodes mounted on plywood boxes or non existent goose necks and drains under the wall sinks. Is it possible you do some exteriors and maybe some cutaways on location and then repair to the studio where conditions are more capacious, convenient and convivial? Where a flat with some foam core on it doubles for the wall?

I of course know that you are being perfectly truthful when it comes to glory holes, who can you trust if you can’t trust a pornographer? I await your reply that will explain away my naive questions, as I have no life.

I also await the publication of your collected memoirs and observations, you must have enough material from your blog by now. Keep up the good work.

———————————————–

Dutch Dave!

I wanna tell a story. It’s a story I’ve told more than once, so if you heard it, skip the next paragraph.

I was an undergrad at Arizona State University, and I was pulling an all-nighter, studying for mid-terms, and I had to make a poo, and I hate pooing away from home, but I had to poo badly, so I went to the 4th floor of the Hayden Library, where I found an acceptable poo station, and in right in the middle of my poo, I looked over my shoulder, to the left, and saw a big hole drilled in the stall’s wall, and I had absolutely no idea what it was…until, years later, I scored a job at The World Famous Gloryhole.com.

Since it was in a men’s room, I’d call it gay, which validates what you said — gay glory holes exist.

So why not hetero ones?

Why limit filthy, disgusting behavior to the gays? Do you really think “inventive, unsanitary risk taking” is a Gay Thang?

It’s really tough to catch anything from a BJ, and, while the girls at Gloryhole.com are fucking now…well, they visually inspect each ween. That should do!

And listen to Dutch Dave, the Los Angeles building inspector! “A dividing wall in LA require at least a 2×4 thickness plus two thicknesses of 5/8 dry wall for a total thickness of 5 inches”…who says I’m shooting these in the city of Los Angeles? Or even LA County?!?

I do know that in LA midgets and dwarfs and giants are NOT allowed to partake in Glory Hole Shenanigans. That is a fact.

I could go on and on, and defend myself to the end…but I shan’t. All I’ll say is sit back, relax, an watch super hot chicks do super filthy things.

Your pal — Billy

PS: Collected memoirs and observations! From a pornographer! What would I call it?

From Enriching and Improving Young Peoples’ Lives to Wrecking Them: The Story of Billy Watson.

Billy Watson: The Story of a Terminated College Professor to a Wildly Successful Smut Peddler.

Is It OK on The Face? The Story of Billy Watson.

I Can’t Use Your Bus Pass As An ID: A Pornographic Tale by Billy Watson.

Don’t Eat The Macaroni Salad on Set! — A Porno Fable by Billy Watson

Pissing Off Christianity One Baby Wipe At A Time

One Man, One Missionary Position

Billy And Maggie Watson — The Early Years

I Shoot Porn: The Tragic Tale of Billy Watson

That’s the best I can do…any more ideas?

Jada Stevens

Random Thoughts

They’re All Suckers, I Tell Ya!

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G3 iPhone

You should have seen all the suckers today at the Apple store, waiting in line to get the new i-Fucking-Phone. There were so many people waiting around it was like Christmas — and they were giving them away.

I was lugging my iMac in, cause it had a CD jam, and the extra dough I shelled out for the technical phone support couldn’t eject it, either.

I dragged the iMac along the ground in the very nice box it came in by its flimsy handle, back to The Genius bar, where all the geniuses at my local mall’s Apple store labor. They told me to wait at the bar, cause they’d call my name when they were ready to deal with me, and the store was really loud cause it was chock full of suckers waiting to get a piece of the new iPhone — code named G3.

Kinda like a robot name.

I looked up at the pretty illustration of the G3, and then down at my new LG Dare. The Dare is Verizon’s answer to iPhone, and while its design is wholly feminine (hence making it kinda gay for a dude to have one) I very much like it…as well as my Verizon service.

I Dare, but No Way Am I Gay.

(Time for a total (and really stupid) digression: “I Dare” reminds me of “I Will Dare”, Paul Westerberg’s fine opening song to the superb Replacements record “Let It Be”. If you don’t know it, make yourself aware).

I kept looking up at Apple’s nifty illustrations, and back into my palm and at my Dare.

My Dare — the iPhone G3. The iPhone G3 — my Dare.

To make myself feel a bit more secure, I started playing with my Dare, and reassuring myself I made the right decision to extend my contract with Verizon 2 more years in order to get my Dare super cheap…and not ending my contract with Verizon (it was coming up fairly soon) and going to AT&T…and the iPhone.

I flipped through my pics. I turned my Dare sideways, so I could look at my pics at more of a 16:9 ratio — just like iPhone.

Fucking iPhone has nothing over Dare!

I scrolled through recent family pics, and old friend pics, and, nestled right in the middle of all those nice, safe pictures, are a handful of pictures of my Ex’s red, swollen vagina with my ejaculate slowly oozing out.

Creampie pics on Dare! Take that, G3 iPhone!!

I smirked to myself, looking out over a Sea of Suckers, then back at Dare — and those filthy, dirty images.

Which made me go right to My Videos. There’s only three, but oh, what dandies they are! There she is again, doggystyle, pushing her absolutely stunning ass right into my swollen, white-boy wiener. Which isn’t to say I was fucking her in the ass, cause I wasn’t, cause railing a girl in the booty doesn’t really make my Freak Flag fly.

I would also like to add that making homemade movies of me getting it on with a girl does not make my Freak Flag fly, either. Really, it doesn’t. I know you’re thinking something like, come on, dude, you’re full of shit. But really, it was simply a case of a capturing a moment in time for Whackiness’s sake.

Whackiness’s sake!?

Anyways, I smirked to myself, looking back out over The Sea of Suckers, then back at my Dare and those filthy, dirty movies.

I played each one, two or three times, whilst eying all the Dopes & Morons waiting in a dumb, dumb line for their new god damned iPhone.

(For some reason, I just felt the overwhelming need to show off my superior grammatical skillz and use an ampersand in a sentence, so there you go).

As I watched my homemade porno I thought Thank God for technology, and, at that very moment, I swear to God my Ex called.

I did exactly what the geniuses at the Genius Bar told me not to do, and I walked away from their smarty-pants place, cause I didn’t have a good signal there, and I wanted very much to talk to her. So I walked to the front of the store — by the Power Books — where my signal got much better.

We’re kinda navigating through Rocky Seas at the moment…and, when I think about it, with a clear head and from a safe distance, there’s really not very much of a good reason why we’re going through what we’re going through right now. Cause we haven’t really been a couple for quite sometime, with the exception of one recent Romantic Whorl, and that’s when things got kinda weird.

Weird, huh?

I don’t even really know why I’m referring to her as “Ex”, and I suppose that’s super fucking weird — cause that’s what she is — but whatever. I had to dream something up to call her here, and that’s the best I could do.

So we’re in the middle of a nice conversation when I look up at notice my genius at The Genius Bar is giving me The Stink Eye, so I hung up and ran back as fast as I could just to deal with her. “So what seems to be the problem?” The Genius asked.

I said, “CD jam.”

“What kind of CD is it, exactly?”

“A very good one. All stuff off hhe Trojan label…Dancehall…oh, and Rocksteady, I think.”

She looked up at me, totally befuddled. But she’s a genius, right? And I have no idea why I told her this, and when I did, she looked up at me like I was a Special Person. A very Special Person. Like I shoulda been wearing a helmet while shopping at the mall.

So I quickly followed up: “It’s a reggae CD, and I was dumping it into iTunes, and it just jammed. I tried everything, and nothing worked. I Googled a bunch of stuff, but nothing worked, and I spent about 1/2 hour with Apple care, and they finally gave up and assigned a case number and told me to bring it here.”

Genius wasn’t too friendly. “Did you restart the computer with your mouse pushed down?”

“I did everything.”

She didn’t like that answer. “Did you restart the computer with your mouse pushed down?”

“Yes mam. That was the first thing Apple Care told me to try.”

“I have to ask that, sorry.” Then she grabbed some paperwork and started filling it out. Half way through she looked up at me and said, “How do you spell Reggae?”

I shit you not.

And I wanted to say something like, what kind of genius working The Genius Bar do you think you are? But instead I said “R-E-G-G-A-E”, which she wrote down on the paperwork.

I shit you not.

Suddenly, I thought about Priest’s super fun e-mail that I blogged the other day. I have no idea why I thought about it, but I did. Maybe cause I just hung up with Ex…but who knows. And I wish the genius working the bar was really a genius, cause I woulda followed up with all sorts of questions on relationships, and how to make them work, and what to do, and what not to do, and what to do when they go haywire; but, instead, I just kinda stood there and watched her fill out her paperwork, in which she wrote “REGGAE”, (spelled correctly) and then she handed the paper to me and said to initial here and date there and sign here and then she said something about it taking up to 48 hours to make things work, and they’d call me when my iMac was all better.

I walked out and noticed the line was gone. I couldn’t believe it. No more iPhone Dummies waiting in line for G3! Where the fuck did they all go? Big Bonus Points to all the employees at the Apple Store! Imagine that wild influx of Yuppie Suckers who want a new gadget to beat off to…and taking care of almost all of them in under an hour.

I was shocked.

Amazed.

Must be some sort of World Record.

Some place.

Somewhere.

Super Fun E-mails

Super Fun E-Mails: “Porno Relationships.”

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Audrey Elson

The Priest writes:

It seems like you run into a few girls that are fairly new to the porno thing. Well, more than I do, which is at zero… but have you ever seen the male talent start going out with new girls? Especially after screwing them? I’m wondering if there are unspoken professional boundaries that exist in your world of sleaze. Would a guy have any interest in going out with the girl? I mean, especially if he just fucked her, I can only imagine that his conquest would be to rapture her emotionally or something. Intellectual stimulation. Would a girl like a porn dude enough to date him? What kind of pressure is on both sexes to date either inside or outside the industry?
—————————————————–

Ah, my old friend The Priest! Wondering about how relationships work in Porno Land. Often times I wonder how they ever work at all…in or out of porn, so I’m gonna do my very best to answer this, and since I think it’s smartest to always answer questions for yourself — and not others — I won’t speak of porn dudes, but of your special pal, Billy Watson.

Since I started directing porn, I haven’t had a a normal relationship with what I’ll call a “civilian” since I jumped into this crazy biz.

“Civilians” are what Porno People call Non-Porno People.

You are a Civilian; I am not…even though I’m not male talent. (I’m going to go ahead and lump “directors” into the talent pool when it comes to defining a civilian — and I always chuckle to myself when I call myself that…a director).

Once, at a bachelor party, our crew was walking into a bar when a girl — a Civilian Girl — made extended eye contact with me. Now, this doesn’t happen very often, so I made my move. And we made our way through the initial pleasantries, and when the inevitable happened, I had to make a choice.

Here’s the inevitable: “So, Billy, what do you do for a living?”

I handle the inevitable by lying my ass off. I’ve told you this before…I’m in “internet sales” or “web design” or “back-end software applications for internet sites” (when I’m feeling all complex and fancy) or yadda yadda yadda.

Lies are no way to start relationships. They’re no way to end them, either.

This is one thing I’ve managed to learn in life, but it took a while. Not that Civilian Girl was going to be any sort of relationship…but you never know, right?

In an instant, I decided to tell Civilian Girl The Truth. “I’m make dirty movies.”

“You whaaa…” said Civilian Girl.

I repeated myself. “I make dirty movies.”

I’d also like to add I had slammed a dozen or so bottles of Fat Tire up to that point in the evening, and I was feeling might bold.

“Really,” Civilian Girl said. “What do you do for a living?”

One of my posse — who had my back — said, “He’s serious. He makes pornos”.

That’s right. I referred to Home Slice as one of my posse, and that he had my back. And now I’m calling him Home Slice.

Civilian Girl took one long look at me, and I knew by that look where all was headed, and the beer didn’t facilitate the decision-making process much, and at that moment I felt like living a lie was a stupid thing to do…so I poured it on.

This, of course, was a silly mistake.

Maybe not.

“I cast, direct, and sometimes produce Adult Entertainment. I work in Los Angeles, but when I’m not working, I live here.”

I could see Civilian Girl grow tense almost at once, and she said something like, “you’re not serious, are you?”

“Oh, I’m very serious. I shoot for some pretty popular websites. Blacks On Blondes, Glory….”

I couldn’t even get the word “Gloryhole.com” out of my mouth when, suddenly, I turned into John Merrick — AKA The Elephant Man — and Civilian Girl fled in terror.

Absolute terror.

Night of The Living Dead terror.

I got into a relationship with a Civilian Girl who knew what I did for a living when we started dating, but she had been a friend of mine for 20 years; but, in the end, whenever I went to LA to work, crazy fights broke out…usually at 1 am, and usually after she had been surfing adult sites, trying to see if I was fucking anyone.

In other words, being male talent.

Isn’t that a good one? “Who in the world is gonna hire a 40 year old chubby guy with a 6 inch ween?” I’d say to her.

But still, it would happen. She’d call me in tears. “YOU TOLD ME YOU DON’T FUCK ON FILM! I SEE YOUR COCK!!”

“Um, where honey?”

“RIGHT HERE!” and she’d show me a some URL, and I’d say something like, “honey, look at that big porno dick. Think about my Average Joe dick. Now…do you really think that’s me?”

She’d get all quiet, and sniffle, and then apologize, and I’d console her, and we’d chat a bit, and they she’d hang up…and then call me, about 2 hours later.

“YOU TOLD ME YOU DON’T FUCK ON FILM! I SEE YOUR COCK! THIS TIME I REALLY CAUGHT YOU!”

Do I need to tell you where that relationship went?

This relegates me to dating Porn Whores.

And do I need to tell you how these have gone so far?

I’m far from being perfect. In fact, I’m a mess when it comes to dating a girl…Porn Whore or Civilian. In the five years (almost six!) I’ve been making dirty movies, I’ve had two “girlfriends” that are Porn Whores.

One was Jayma Reed. I used to blog her, and that relationship lasted through the summer of 06.

The other Porn Whore won’t let me blog her.

But I’ve got some things to say. Who knows…maybe one day I’ll break my promise. It won’t be the first time, that’s for sure.

Shit Priest, did I even answer your question?

How about this: a lot of people in my business date within the business, cause, they (somewhat) have managed to separate “sex” and “love” and “work”, and while a few of these relationships manage to survive the test of time, most that I know of haven’t, but that’s just like most relationships, right? And it never works when a Porn Girl dates a Civilian, unless the Civilian is feeding off the Porn Whore, which, sadly, is common in my business, and it’s totally dysfunctional, but sometimes the only thing worse than being dysfunctional is being alone.

Right?

Nothing To Do With Porn

Open Up The Floodgates! Comment away!!

4 Comments

Cameron Love

Wow!

You guys have something to say! I just made comments available hours ago…and here you are, leaving comments! Just check out yesterday’s blog about watermelon being the new Viagra!

And they’re good!

You’re also asking for more updates…but what if they’re half-assed?

Anyways, I’ll say it again — drop down to the lower left of my blog, and there you can register and then….comment away!

Maybe this is the shot in the arm ISP needs…who knows?

In the meantime, enjoy a free handjob movie! It features Cameron Love showing her love to another guy….while her boyfriend watches. It’s one of the latest updates at the world-famous Manojob.com!

random rants, random raves, Random Thoughts

Watermelon: The New Viagra!

8 Comments

Aiden Starr

Lately, I haven’t felt like I have anything worthwhile to say anymore, so I’ve been checking news articles for Bloggin’ Fodder.

I think I found a funny one.

According to “WebMD” and CBS News, it appears there’s some “natural Viagra” in watermelon.

I dunno about you, but I like my watermelon chilly-chilled in the fridge.

Is this why black guys can fuck better?

Do black guys even really fuck better?

And how horribly, stereotypically racist am I being right now?

The “natural Viagra” in question is called “citrulline”, and that stuff makes the blood vessels in your wiener fill up more readily. The next thing you know…boner.

Wood.

President Woodrow Wilson.

Scientists all over the place are already poo-pooing the idea that there’s enough citrulline in watermelon to turn your pee-pee hard, but it’s kinda fun to think that a cool slice o’ melon over the 4th of July weekend means you’re gonna pound your chick like you never have before.

But let’s get back to the whole “do black guys fuck better than white guys?” thing.

Yes.

Or no.

All it depends on the sexual stimuli at hand and how your neuro-biological processes process that stimuli.

Shit…am I getting in over my head?

I Google, goddammit, just like you do, and lately I’ve been interested in the human psyche and what makes people do the things they do…especially the naughty stuff.

And the dumb stuff.

What makes a man want to be treated like a baby…literally? Have a woman diaper him so he can mess his diapers and get scolded…and cleaned up?

What makes a man want to have a nice lady drop a turd on his chest?

What makes a man spend $30 on a Crack Whore when he lives with a Supermodel?

What makes a man want to watch his wife get banged out by some ghetto thugs?

What makes a man want to have his testicles clobbered?

What makes a man want to be reminded how small his wiener is while he’s fucking a nice lady?

What makes a man want to tie a nice lady up so he can leave her there for four hours while he goes and grabs a beer with his buddies…only to come back, fuck the living shot out of her, and then send her home?

And what in the world makes that nice lady want to take it?

I’ve always wondered about the common elements that create The Porn Whore, for example. Not that being a Porn Whore is dumb, but I don’t think it’s the smartest career choice for anyone…man or woman. Anyways, I know I’ve blogged this before, but why not make a quick mention of it again?

The sure-fire neuro-biological ingredients (do I even call them that?) to cook up a Porn Whore (choose any number of the following):

1) Grow up without money.

2) Grow up without attention.

3) Grown up being force-fed Religious beliefs.

4) Grow up in an abusive household (see also #2).

I wonder what makes people think that, on a whole, black dudes fuck better than Whitey? I mean, do they really fuck better than Whitey, or are the people getting fucked so into being fucked by a Negro that it makes sex better?

Ever think white girls fuck black guys just to piss off Daddy? (see also #2)

Ever think black guys wanna fuck white girls just cause they can?

Does any of this even make any sense…or am I rambling?

I am. I think cause I haven’t blogged in a while, and, like I said when I started this whole rant, I don’t think I have much more to say.

About anything at all.

But I’m sure something will come up soon.

In fact, I’m quite sure of it.

PS: I’ve just enabled the “Comments” section, after a few years of not letting people say anything at all about what I have to say…mostly cause of SPAM. So, do me a favor, and go sign up to leave comments. It’s at the bottom left of the blog, under the little calendar thingy.

Please.

After all, it’ll make I Shoot Porn way more fun.

Having fun tickles your neuro-biological processes — until they giggle — just like a little girl!

And that’s what makes life worth living, right?

Aiden Starr

Nothing To Do With Porn

Score!

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Score!

I love flea markets. And used book stores. And used record stores.

I used to love thrift stores, but when everyone else started to like them as much as me, all the fun went away.

Oh, listen to me. Thinking I’m all cool and shit cause I figured out Thrift Stores a long time ago.

Anyways, I love all those places cause I love The Score. And it’s not about making money on The Score…it’s just knowing that you found it, and it’s worth way more than you paid for it. Well, making some extra coin is kinda cool, too.

Scores can be defined so many ways: my Auntie thinks she’s scored big when she finds a cheap Hummel Plate; my pal B thinks he’s scored when he finds a Tiki mug; the Armenians I live next to think all the tsatskes cluttering up their homes cumulate into One Big Score.

My best Score was a self-portrait of Bukowski; I bought it from a dude in a used bookstore for $75 in 1991, and, about a decade later, I eBay’d it for almost $4,000. I’ve scored some really cool shit over the years, but don’t worry…I won’t brag.

OK, just for a sec, and off the top of my head: a Ray Johnson book with an original piece collage laid in for less than a Happy Meal; Burroughs “Call Me Burroughs” on ESP; tons of Titters and Beauty Parades and Wink and a tube of Darkey Toothpaste with paste still in it.

None of my scores come close to this: some scrap metal dealer in England was handed a cup, and it turns out that Score is worth a million. The Dealer got the cup from a dude who got it from grandpa, and he played with the cup when he was a kid.

Cool gift, grandpa.

Dude thought grandpa’s toy gift was a brass cup. He kept it under his bed after he got tired of playing with it, and The Score has been there ever since.

Turns out the brass cup is gold Persian treasure, manufactured before The Big JC walked the Earth.

The best part of the story? Dude used the million dollar cup as target practice with his BB Gun.

Score!

Super Fun E-mails

Super Fun E-Mails: “Tricia Marx, Molly Mason, and Xanax.”

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Tricia Marx

MD writes:

…I’ve been a regular reader for some time now but never really felt the need to write, I came across a few things that compeled me to send a note. I started to read your blog entry about the big turd and I thought, holy crap he’s going to rip off Sedaris, I’m so glad that you didn’t as that would have really sucked, Me Talk Pretty One Day is truly hilarious. I recently turned 30 and sure enough I had a panic attack, just like the one you wrote about, I pretty much thought I was going to die, I’ve had a few since then and have started to take some medicine, which has had an unfortunate side effect, any suggestions on kicking a Xanax habit?

Anyway I love that you can provide some of the behind the scences stuff about porn girls, I find that to be much more interesting than the actual porn itself. With that being said, do you have any interesting stories about two of my fav porn girls, Trisha Marx and/or Molly Mason? Just curious.

Oh and I just finished Chuck Paulianiak’s new book Snuff, I was wondering if you had a chance to read it and what you thought about it, what do you think about other things like Wonderland and Boogie Nights?
——————————————————————

MD:

Anxiety attacks…pure misery.

The first woke me from a troubled sleep at 4am Dallas, Texas, time, somewhere around 1991 or so; I had returned earlier than night from seeing Bob Mould play a solo acoustic set, and I was excited to catch it, cause The Huskers had called it quits a few years earlier, and even though I was a big fan, I never managed to see them live. And I don’t think Sugar was around yet…but I might be wrong.

A really good, super sweet anxiety attack will make you feel like you’re about to die: the throat closes up, breathing is heavy and forced, surreal out-of-body sensations abound, as well as an overwhelming sense of dread.

Do not take Xanax. That shit is best used when you’re drunk and you’ve got a naked Barbie Cummings in the room, and only under those circumstances. Since that doesn’t happen very much, you won’t get hooked.

I don’t know you, bro, but my guess is you could lose some weight, exercise, and see a good therapist. That took care of my attacks.

Molly Mason and Tricia Marx are out of the game, and probably for good…but you never know. Both were fun fun fun and it’s too bad they’re gone, but let’s face it — porn isn’t a very good thing for a girl to do, especially over the long haul.

Wait, maybe it’s better if they’re in it for the long haul than as some sort of temporary fix…a career choice versus paying off credit card bills from over-spending at Victoria’s Secret.

I dunno.

Lately I’ve been feeling like I don’t know very much at all. I haven’t even been reading, although I started No Country for Old Men (third time without finishing) as well as a book about HST that Ralph Steadman wrote. As far as movies, I haven’t see anything good in a long time either, and I hated “Wonderland”, but I love “Boogie Nights”.

I think I hated “Wonderland” cause it did such a fine job describing the miscreants that used to abound in my business, but are slowly fading away.

Remember “Casino”? If nothing else, the movie was a good history on Vegas, and I actually see parallels to Porno Land: once upon a time Vegas was run by the mob, but the mob sold out to Howard Hughs, and he sold out to all the big corporations.

In the old days, when you couldn’t pay the casino to settle up at the end of your trip, a dude named Vito smashed your hand with a ball-peen hammer. If you did it again, you ended up in a hole in the middle of the desert. Don’t pay them back now at the end of your stay now and you’ll get billed, and, eventually, if you don’t pay up you won’t get asked back again. Eventually, the worst that would come of it is a drop in your credit score.

Porno Land used to be run by its own “mob”, so to speak, and that mob didn’t really sell out…they just couldn’t figure out how to change. Now, for the most part, big corporations are running the show, and things in Porno Land are…well, a lot nicer.

Kinda like Vegas.

Maybe it’s time to make a “nice” movie about the porn biz: tell a story about how everyone’s friendly, and how girl’s have a “No List” so they don’t have a “work” with guy(s) they don’t like, and how much fun everyone’s having, and all the parties and red-carpet events, and how we’re all just like a tight little family, laughing all the way to the bank.

I’m serious! Porn Valley is a much nicer place, and way more professional, and everyday, when people ask me how I’m doing, I just tell them “I’m living The Dream!” In fact, I have to get back to my The Dream — the girl just cleaned the jizz off her from another superb Manojob scene, and it’s time to thank her for the wonderful work she did and cut her a check.

And I’ll do it with a smile on my face.