Today’s Guest Blogger: A Fan Blogs on the Hatred Porn Girls Receive.

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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.

Since I started working in this biz a decade ago, the amount of hate a Porno Princess receives never ceases to amaze me. Whatever the delivery method (texts (almost always from blocked numbers), anonymous packages (almost always containing pictures and/or DVD’s and sent to the parents’ home…out of “concern”), e-mails, and any and all social media), your favorite porn star gets them almost daily. Don’t do IR? Then you’re a “dodger”. Do IR? Then you’re a “nigger lover”. You’re a slut, a whore, a skank…and I bet you make your daddy proud, huh?

Recently, I tweeted for a fan to blog about why The Porn Fan, in general, is so damn angry. And today, I woke up to find this in my inbox!

Art writes:

First, a definition. While this may not be the dictionary definition, this is the meaning of the following word in the minds of ‘angry’ men viewing porn: Slut – any woman who has slept with more than one man but has not slept with me.

There are generally two types of sluts. The approachable slut that might sleep with me someday. I like her. In fact, I like her so much that calling her a slut is a term of endearment. Then there’s the stuck-up slut who would never give me the time of day. In fact, she is a whore. This is not a term of endearment.

Most men who look at porn on a regular basis are not generally angry. Viewing porn often does however, result in feelings that include anger. Also bitterness, resentment, jealousy, self-doubt, self-loathing… Then why look?

Most men tend to base their self worth on two numbers. Their bank account balance and the number of women they have seen naked. A deficit in one number can often be supplemented by a surplus in the other. The bank account balance is relatively straightforward. The number of naked women is far more complicated and can be offset by recency. i.e. A naked woman on my lap now will temporarily make up for any overall deficit in this number. Unfortunately, our bank account balance is often easier to control than that second number. Most of us don’t have ready access to a happily naked woman. Those who do typically aren’t spending much time looking at porn.

For the rest of us, viewing porn involves a great deal of fantasy. This is why we don’t care about the plot and POV and gonzo are popular. We want to see a woman doing naughty things and want to imagine that we could somehow be involved. Or maybe we want to see naughty things happening to a woman and somehow derive some power from that scenario that we feel is missing from our lives.

Post climax with a woman you’re left with a beautiful naked woman who just fucked you. Post climax with porn and you’re left with just a television or computer and the fantasy comes crashing down around us. Then the emptiness and wanting returns. This is where those negative feelings come into play. We instinctively know that the woman we just wacked off to would never give us the time of day. While she happily spreads her legs for some stranger she would treat us like garbage. In fact, desirable woman we know in our own lives ignore us or treat us like dirt. I think this is responsible for much of the interest in interracial or other porn that is implied as degrading woman. What better way to exact some feeling of revenge than seeing the whore who would never give you the time of day gagging on the floor with a gapping red ass dripping semen from 5 brutally oversized cocks. Won’t even talk to me? Take that bitch! We despise the power she has over us but just can’t break free from her spell.

Then there’s the guy. Who the fuck is he? How does some dipshit stranger who probably barely graduated from high school get to fuck beautiful woman all day. How does he get to do this and we don’t? How does some middle aged guy get to spend time with all of these beautiful naked woman just because he has a fucking camera? I have a camera. Never ever under estimate the self loathing that comes from realizing that we just paid to watch a loser jack off onto the face of a woman we’d really like to have ourselves. And what’s with the abnormally big cocks? Who is that for, exactly? We all know that they’re not normal but it still makes most male viewers of porn feel inadequate about themselves. This results in more negativity.

Then we realize that the reason that douchebag of a guy gets to fuck all those women, and the reason that beautiful girl is a crazed whore… In fact, the reason that whole word exists is because loser average-dicked guys like us pay them. And we often resolve, for a while at least, to stay away. But eventually, the desire to see more naked women and fantasize that they might be into us overcomes the buyers remorse.

Today’s Guest Blogger: Leya Falcon and the Metaphysics of Her Vagina.

Leya Falcon 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. Except for Leya’s blog. Recently, I tweeted for a Porno Princess to blog on the metaphysics of her vagina. Leya replied, and rather enthusiastically, I might add. I did edit Leya’s blog, but only as far as some punctuation and paragraph structure in order to make it easier to read.

I also called for a porn fan to blog about why most porn fans are so angry, but no takers…so far.

On to Leya.

Vagina. Now most of you probably just got a picture in your head of what you have been led to believe is the vagina; when, in all actuality, what you are envisioning is the vulva. Not the actual vagina. You’re probably asking what the difference is, and I am here to break the news that there is a big difference. The actual vulva is the external area of the female genitals that consists of parts such as the ever so sensitive clitoris, the labia majora and the labia minora (otherwise known as the inner and outer pussy lips).

I find myself correcting people all the time when I am asked to show my vagina to the camera saying, “well, technically, the vagina is the sheath-like tube that connects the vulva to the cervix and I have yet to experience a vaginal prolapsed so I cannot show my vagina to the camera, only my vulva.”

Personally, if I am not in a setting where I am required to speak in a non-vulgar manner, I just refer to the entire female genital area as the pussy; it just keeps my overly active brain focused and not so concerned on scientific specifics. Now that we all have the understanding of the difference between the vagina and the vulva, I hope you are all ready to hear the honest truth about what Leya Falcon’s pussy is all about.

My pussy, as every other one out there, loves to be fucked, eaten and pleased; she just loves sexual contact, and if that contact is hard (like she likes it) she will spew out pussy juice like there is no tomorrow. I actually have found it harder for me to make my pussy hold in her joy from being played with by a hot bitch or a hard cock than to just let go and let her do what she wants to do. My pussy is a bit different from average. I would say not only because of the way she spews out her joy across whomever or whatever she is being penetrated by, but also because her lips hang lower than the average pussy and her button (otherwise known as the clitoris) is rather large, leaving no mystery as to where it is or how turned on I really am. It will enlarge the more I get turned on. My pussy loves to be played with all over, but her favorite area to have hit is the little spot that makes her cum like crazy. That area on the front side of the vaginal walls (otherwise known as the g-spot) also seems to be very easy to hit, because I know where it is and how to position myself to get to it. Because of my pussy being a bit different than average, I am glad to report that she has had very few disappointing sexual experiences in her life.

Now as many of you know by now, I am a self-proclaimed man with a pussy, and I believe I may have more testosterone than estrogen floating around in my body. Maybe one day when I need to get my hormone levels checked, then I will find out if my theory is true. My assumption on my having more of the male sex hormone in my body stems from the realization that my mindset is far different than the average female. I think like a man (more often than not) and this includes chasing after pussy. Although my pussy enjoys the feeling of a big and fat cock very much, there is just something about another pussy that drives it completely insane — leading my mind to lose any ability to think clearly. This is how I know for a fact that pussy — especially my pussy — was not put on this Earth not simply to be the tunnel leading from the vulva to the uterus or for sexual pleasure. It was created to seize and control the entire human race.

My pussy controls me. Other pussy controls me. I will dare to say my pussy controls many of you as well, because I doubt you would be reading the metaphysics of my pussy if it were written by a human with a cock — or if it were written by another woman whose pussy you did not enjoy either watching, fucking, or chasing after. I realize that since I have become aware of the fact that I am a sexual being, I have been using my pussy as a means of control and of getting the things I want accomplished. If I don’t want to do something, I just complain of menstrual cramps. If there is something I want, I use my pussy as a bartering system. And in the case of my adult career, I have been using my pussy to obtain the attention I have always dreamed of…and the voice I never had. Though my pussy loves to be played with, and she loves the power of being able to control the thoughts and actions of others, the thing that keeps her alive and well in the porn industry is that she is constantly nourished with the attention she needs to stay alive and to keep her owner satisfied.

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

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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.

And now here’s more about The Three Nuns —

Nuns in Porn

Mr. and Mrs. Watson rolled into town this Labor Day weekend. I’ve never really talked about my family, but that’s cause this is a porno blog, and if there’s one place your folks don’t belong…well, that’s in your porno blog. In case you’re wondering, they know what I do for a living, and while they’re not ashamed at Their Son The Pornographer, I’m sure they would have been much happier with Their Son The English Teacher. Although they were much more disappointed with Their Son The Stockbroker, that’s for sure.

When I told my mom I was getting my Series 7 and getting on the phone to peddle stocks, she scowled…and said nothing.

When I told my mom I was getting behind a camera to document people engaged in various sex acts — some of which may be deemed obscene in certain parts of our great nation — she just sorta shrugged her shoulders and said something like, “just be careful.” And then she asked me, “do you have a porno director name?”

“Billy Watson!” I said.

She asked, “Where did you dream that up?”

“Well, I just wanted to call myself something unassuming and corny. Cause there’s nothing cornier and dumber than, say, “Johnny Madness” or “Tommy Big Guns” or any variances thereof. And I certainly wouldn’t give myself a one-name name, you know? That territory is reserved for the weak and worthless.”

My mom thought about it a sec and said, “that’s strange. I never told you this, but your grandmother dated a man named Billy Watson before she married your grandfather. I think that’s the first time I’ve heard the name Billy Watson in maybe a hundred years.” She said it so nonchalantly that I dunno what surprised me more — her non-expressive reaction or the fact that I randomly chose the same (porno) name as a dude who my granny dated about the same time The Great Depression was winding down.

Weirder yet? This weekend at one of my flea markets, Dad walks up to me and says in this sort of hush-hush whisper, “the fat lady sitting in front of the van has the kind of dirty pictures you like.” I looked up and over at the lady, who was really fat and had parked herself right next to her ’89 Dodge van. Someday I think I’m gonna take portraits of flea market folks, and yes…I got my dad scouting flea markets, but he still hasn’t figured out the difference beween “cheesecake” pics and hardcore ones. But in this particular instance, that was quite alright. Cause in the folded-up envelope the fat lady kept in a small glass case on her plastic folding table was more of the Three Nuns.

Oh, while I’m talking about that post, I was pretty amazed only one reader called phony on the Nazi fags; more amazing yet was the following e-mail that landed in my in-box from Europe: I am born 1975 but my grandfather already told me that the Sturmabteilung (SA) was the known “gay-wing” of the Nazis. (He was your typical “been there, done that” former not-anymore-Nazi…) So, these Nazi gay-pics do not surprise me at all. This prompted me to dial in my Google machine, which immediately returned Ernst Röhm.

Back to The Three Nuns: First off, the half-dozen or so pics I scored at the Flea Market are tiny, and each single picture contains a bunch of even tinier pictures. They were small, but not so small I didn’t immediately recognize the large photo of the three nuns I scored in New York City last month. “How much?” I asked the Fat Lady.

“Fifteen,” she said, flatly.

“Give ya ten.”

“Fifteen,” she said, flatly.

I turned and walked. And then I turned and started looking for something else I could bundle into the buy. The only other thing that remotely interested me was a black americana label featuring a black kid eating watermelon, which, when I think about it now, is more offensive than the image of the 3 nuns getting banged. And which is why I used to collect that stuff. The only problem with the label was it was already stuck to a piece of cardboard.

I handed the fat lady $15 and went on my merry way, back to my studio…and my scanner. Take a closer look at these, would ya? How about the nuns getting put into pile-driver! Would woulda thought girls were getting slammed in pile driver back then? Not me! And the dudes are butt-fuckin’ bi-boys, too, which totally cracked me up.

And to think the porn getting churned out today is labeled “bad”.

Nuns in Porn

The Cuckold and his Woman

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

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

She’s gonna need two.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

What else would you expect from a pornographer?