image stolen from ifc.com
My buddy finances porn. Little shit, nothing you’ve heard of. But he’s moving into the clips4sale world. You post clips of fetishes so obscure that there’s not enough on the tube sites. Guys pay to download them. Women stomping on balls, popping balloons with their pussies. Guys shitting in diapers and getting laughed at. Weird shit. It’s one of the last places where the money is.
He asked me to help out. Find fetishes that are underrepresented. Niches to fill. We have girls who will do anything. Do not raise your daughter as a Jehovah’s Witness.
So what I want to know is: what twisted shit do you desperately want to jerk it to, but can’t find enough of? Comment or email me. I don’t judge. I jerk to dwarves, diaper girls, fat pigs, small penis humiliation, unwanted impregnation… that’s just scratching the surface. I jerk it to shit that would make a billygoat puke. Anything but studio porn with fake watermelon tits and tacky post-molestation piercings. I don’t give a fuck. In my actual sex life I’m a staggering bore.
What’s a fetish scene you want to see? Or in a vanilla sex scene, what’s a scenario or plot you want that doesn’t exist? We can do old school stuff with dialogue, locations. What type of girl(s), guy(s) aren’t out there enough? Whatever you want to jerk to but can’t.
I can’t promise anything in return. If you’re not anonymous and suggest a winner I’ll try to hook you up. Give you the clip you requested free at least, if it can be done. Name the actress after your grandmother. Whatever I can do. But I have no idea how the money side of this works, so. You may suggest a billion dollar idea and be left holding your dick.
I’m in California. Legal to shoot here. Films will be shot and distributed by pros in compliance with all applicable laws.
My asshole bleeds and bleeds now. From shitting so much. I shit, I wipe my bloody ass, grind the shit right into my bloodstream. Shit that is filled with third world parasites. I should see a doctor. But what are they gonna do. Been through this before. Round 1: ride it out for a few more days, they will say. Stay hydrated. Eat a high fiber diet. On your first visit, a doctor gives you as much new information as the warning on a pack of cigarettes. “Uh, try living healthier. Do healthy things you’ve heard about on TV.” Continue reading
I’m sorry I called the cops.
Actually I’m not sorry, you fucking jerkoff. I hope they kick your fucking teeth in while your fat cactus eating mother watches and cries. You thieving sack of shit. But I’m saying I’m sorry. Because I don’t want you and your vatos to find me and beat my ass with the wrench you adjusted my seat with. My handlebars. You made it more “low rider.” Your taste is appalling.
But look: I’d filed a police report that it was stolen. So if I found it I could scare you, or whoever you sold it to. Make you give it back. Turned out that wasn’t necessary. Just the serial number on an envelope was enough. The shop you sold it to is the one closest to my house. I pass it several times a week. The front tire tube was bought there. Since it’s a nice bike, they displayed it on the sidewalk. With their best merchandise. I passed by. Could that be it? Nahh…. but, I’m obsessive compulsive. Had to make sure. Dumb fuckin luck. Continue reading
Woke up on the toilet. Forehead against the edge of the bathtub. I was dreaming about the Red Worms of Maguey. We ate them out by the pyramids, they were a specialty of the restaurant. Some kind of Aztec staple. In the dream, of course, they came to life and squirmed around on the beans and the authentic® blue corn tortilla. Raised little blind heads at me, waved pincers. I had a bath drawn. It had gone cold. I got in it anyway. Had to wash out my ass. I couldn’t wipe it anymore. My asshole and the inside of my crack were swollen. Pulpy. Touching them felt like picking up a rotten beached jellyfish half baked in the sun. Toilet paper felt like Freddy Krueger fingerfucking my colon. I climbed into the bath. Shivered. I fell asleep again. Bad dreams. Woke up, my skin felt like a dead man’s. Little chunks of brick red shit in the water. Cat hair from when I was writhing around on the rug. I had to shit again, bad, and the water was already fucked up. Why not just let go. No. Have some dignity man. Continue reading
Quick one from the Zocalo in Mexico City. I am wearing a nationalistically-colored poncho provided by the Mexican government in honor of Independence Day. Wanted to do one from atop the Pyramid of the Sun but they kicked us out.
I will be off the internet for several days and there will be no new posts for a while. In the meantime, the “Best Of” is pretty good and these two are also amusing. If you know me in real life, I will not be answering my phone or responding to texts or emails. Rest assured, I will be within the state of California dutifully seeking full time employment each day. Excelsior.
Last night I consumed a pint of Christian Brothers® brandy from Royale Junior Liquor Market and sat down to determine my position on U.S. Intervention in Syria. This was not inspired by Drunk History:
I kept thinking about a guy peeling potatoes.
Originally I pictured him in one of Assad’s palaces. I heard on NPR, an expert speculating. Maybe the US would bomb the palaces to send a personal message to Assad. So I thought of a guy who works in the kitchen there. You think they let them leave when they’re going to get bombed? I’m sure there are guards standing around with AK’s, making sure the staff stays put. I kept thinking about this guy. He has a kid maybe, a girl. He was having issues with his wife, some pain in the ass in his day. But good things happened, too. His daughter did something cute, brought home a picture from school. He was employed. Lucky to be. And what other jobs are out there. You get a job for the king, you gotta take it. So he’s peeling potatoes in the kitchen. Everyone is nervous. They heard the Americans are going to bomb the country. Scared chatter. Someone makes a joke. The dark mood is broken. Then they’re all vaporized in fire. Skin blistered off, organs boiled inside their bodies. His daughter hearing the news. Continue reading
- image stolen from flickr user “Lesley Looper.”
Or do you? Is it just every woman I know who doesn’t? I’ll be out with a girl. A real she-bro with whom I can talk honestly. She’ll remark that she has to take a shit. An odd choice, the “social hours” shit– the wise person knows to train his body for the morning one-two punch: shit/shower. If your schedule is off, sleep holding it in. Let your bowels marinate a fuming hot sauce log. Suffer dreams of goblins gutting you with hot knives. With one night’s pain you reset the clock. You buy the ultimate human achievement: blissful ass purge followed by the hot womb of the steam. Every day. A perfectly clean asshole. Think of it like beating jet lag. Continue reading
Reading Charles Bukowski poems. They will keep you honest. But honesty is a bitch when you’re employed and don’t hate your boss and don’t drink too much and don’t give a shit about women. Honesty is nothing. I think and feel nothing. Wake up, healthy breakfast, bike to the train, sit down and nod kindly at my fellow commuters. Open the laptop. An hour with no internet. A gift carved out of the day. Nothing comes out of your fingers because nothing’s there.
I don’t hate anybody. I don’t care about the government. Women are just women. They’re still out there, I still want them. But wanting to fuck some teenager on the street is so old now it’s like the weather. Nothing happens. I go to the gym. I’m unhappy that they got rid of all the good magazines. That’s the only emotion I feel in a day. Cook chicken and jerk off. Three dollar bottle of wine, fall asleep watching a movie. Nothing.
Having a normal life feels like waiting out the clock to die and even knowing that gives you nothing. People are out there writing things. Elaborate novels. Political screeds. They get pussy and make a living. But he’s right, that’s all nothing. Even these words about those things being nothing are nothing. If it isn’t exploding out of you then don’t do it, he says. Well what the fuck am I supposed to do then? Something’s gotta show up on the page. People need new words to read on the toilet. Take their mind off of work.
You need pain to make something. And it can’t be fake pain that you chase. Maybe I’ll get lucky and get hit by a truck.
Driving to work today. Not taking the train. This means my future wife would have been on the train. A beautiful woman, in a good mood, primed for conversation. Ready to make the first move. What are you typing, she would ask. I would have been working on my book. Certainly not some bullshit blog post about some bullshit topic and every other word is “fuck” and “cunt.” No. I am writing a novel, I would have said. She would be impressed. Let’s get off in El Monte, she’d say. Take my hand and we’ll run up into the mountains. Forget about your job. We’ll find some place with flowers and just fuck forever.
Now she’s sitting next to an empty seat, or some hobo. We will both die alone.