a guide in how to succeed in whoring without really trying. if you want to be a success. there are tips and tricks written here. i could write about all my awesome clients (most of them) but that would be fucking boring.
no doubt people will be horrified by the honesty here. i'm far from the hero of all my stories, stumbling through awkward situations finding the humour in the horror.
a tale told by an idiot, full of sound a fury, signifying nothing
A HIV-infected male prostitute took a 15-year-old boy to an adult homosexual club in Collingwood and had sex with him knowing they were being filmed, a court heard today.
As the pair left the club, they were each allegedly handed a copy of their sex tape.
Adam Randall, 36, appeared in the Melbourne Magistrates Court accused of sexually abusing the teenager for over three years from when the boy was 13.
Randall faced a total of 14 charges, including having unprotected sex with the boy and another man on separate occasions without telling them he had HIV, putting them at risk of getting the disease.
Magistrate Elizabeth Lambden committed Randall to stand trial in the County Court on eight of the charges - two counts of reckless conduct endangering serious injury; making child pornography by filming the boy at the Collingwood sex club; taking photographs of the boy engaging in indecent sexual acts; sexually penetrating a child under 16; taking part in an indecent act with a child; sexually abusing the boy from more than three years from January 1, 2008 and October 1, 2011; and soliciting a child under 16 to take part in an act of sexual penetration.
Randall, who pleaded not guilty to the charges, will appear in the County Court on December 3 for a directions hearing.
He is expected to plead guilty to the six remaining, less serious charges this afternoon in the Magistrates Court.
These charges include working as a sex worker while infected with HIV; operating a brothel at his home without a permit or licence for more than seven years from January 1, 2005, to May 23 this year; possessing cannabis; displaying a false advertisement for sex work; and unlawful assault.
Police told the court at an earlier hearing that officers had first contacted Randall after receiving an anonymous tip-off that he was advertising sexual services in the Melbourne Community Voice.
Police arranged to meet Randall at his home on May 23 where he allegedly agreed to have unprotected sex after claiming he was clean.
He was arrested and police seized a diary which had a list of his clients' names, dates and the dollar amounts that they had paid.
When questioned at Epping police station, Randall denied having unprotected sex with clients.
Police said Randall claimed he had a high sex drive and usually went to a sauna in Collingwood where he would have sex with up to 20 strangers a day but always wore a condom.
Randall allegedly knew he should not be working as an escort because he was HIV positive.
He was later released on strict bail conditions including that he live with his mother in Warburton and accept a Department of Health order that he not engage in any form of sex work, advise all his sex partners of his HIV status before having sex, and have safe sex.
when you fuck off overseas, all your friends want to catch up and say 'hai!'. really, i just want to go. it's you pack of miserable leeching cunts that i want to get away from
the last friend to see was butch. i had some hash brownies i sure as hell wasn't gonna eat so he came over to scoff the rest. scoff them he did. 20 minutes later he melted into the sofa. there was no moving him, but rather than spend my final night alone being a cockteasing prick to horny strangers on grindr i settled in and watched Hollow Man
"what?" muttered the stoned lump beside me, "oh... pffft!!" layer by layer the invisible man began to vanish on the operating table. it was never a highly praised film, but making Kevin Bacon disappear was something everyone could support wholeheartedly. "it wouldn't happen like that! if it is injected into him why would he disappear from the outside in?"
i drew a shallow breath. of course my friend was right. why would the largest organ that would have the least amount of blood flow vanish first? but i wanted to defend the trash film "it's more impressive from a visual effects point of view."
he grunted. unwilling to accept my reasoning. he had essentially turned into a belingerant dakimakura rejecting his submissive cuddle purpose for barking insults at the screen.
this was worse than when i went to see Harry Potter with a South African. yeah, a white South African, shouting back at the screen. i should have taken my love pillow instead
then invisible man snuck into a make woman's apartment and raped her "throw paint on him! throw something on him!"
"what do you mean 'throw paint on him'? she's naked, she's alone and she's getting raped. she's fucking terrified! she has no idea there's an invisible man in the neighbourhood. she has no idea one even exists. so she's not going to start thinking rationally, 'oh i must splash a bit of paint on this fellow' she'll be too busy defending herself against the terror stabbing at her vagina!"
"okay. fair point."
eventually someone did throw paint/blood on the invisible man, but was this enough to satisfy? no
"why am i defending this? why do i need to? it's not Imelda bloody Staunton as Vera fucking Drake performing backyard abortions with a rusty teaspoon! this is mindless entertainment!"
don't waltz into my house, eat all my brownies, make yourself comfortable and then tear into one of my favourite directors, even one of his less impressive films like Hollow Man!
Vera Drake. does she get her tits out? no. she has a fucking cuppa tea
....and cries a lot
as a teen invisibility was at the top of my list for superpowers. not only could you sneak around noticed, fuck with people's minds, create mischief, steal stuff and follow hot dudes home and… well, not do much other than watch them naked, but as a rampant horny teen homo i was happy with whatever crumbs i could get
another favourite of mine, John Carpenter tried in the 90s, buy the only original thought added was cokehead Chevy Chase bemoaning: do you know how difficult it is to sleep with transparent eyelids?
so when Paul Verhoeven, responsible for some of my favourite films of my neverending adolescence (Robocop, Total Recall, Starship Troopers, Showgirls) expressed he was taking a darker turn on the H G Wells novel. i admit i had high hopes for the study of a man's descent into hell and abuse of power because of the empty hollow inside. unfortunately it digressed into a mediocre slasher that was disappointing.
i have known butch for 12 years now, and although i admire his love of independent cinema and gritty drama, going to to see a film together has been difficult. not that we haven't tried:
"do you want to see a movie tonight? it's a film set in communist romania in the final years of Ceauşescu where two university students try to arrange an illegal abortion-"
"ugh... NO!!!"
"subtitles!?! NOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!"
we are great friends, but we don't agree on many things. i went through a heavy european cinema phase in my early teens when Krzysztof Kieslowski was the pin-up boy on every art-fag bedroom wall. fuck me i still own two copies of A Short Film About Love in fear that i may lend one out and it not be returned. still a favourite of mine despite it being neither 'short' or 'about love'
so it's not that i don't understand his taste in film, i just don't care anymore.
it's normal to not see eye to eye with your friends. these are the subjects that interest him. butch has admitted to living a rather mundane existence. although i disagree, he is one of the two people who inspired me to write this blog many years when he threatened to write his autobiography "Nuts I Have Known". on occasions he now sees his life as pointlessly shuffling papers for the government, studying too many hours and getting drunk one night a week to be able to afford his small inner-city apartment. he reminisces the debaucherous university years he had but has chosen to suffer for the moment to achieve the better life he wants in the future.
Butch is a Mike Leigh film. the gritty british plunge into realism no one really wants to make. he is an agonising character study in misery punctuated by rare moments of joy that hint at the lively character he once was and the audience prays he may become once again.
he is a Mike Leigh film. a depressing Ken Loach production. and i... i am a Paul Verhoeven film
i am the bigger budgeted, dumbed-down hollywood production under eurotrash direction. flashier. faster. an expensive large scale epic that never quite reaches the grand premise of the unique social critique material it is based on. bastardised. bombastic. and with more boobs. simultaneously misogynistic and insulting to men. a trash perversion that more often than not is a financial failure.
more sex, more death and more blood with less thought.
stupefying decisions of one dimensional characters that as a whole make no sense. i am the mind numbing escape from your pitifully boring existence that everyone wants to make but by the first hour will have you regretting spending your cash and your time. i will give you a few cheap laughs, but leave you feeling cheap and used. i will leave you feeling dumber than when you first walked in.
many will love it. many will appreciate the mindless entertainment, what it attempted to do. revered as a cult by some and others will just rewind it back to the scene with the boobs.
i did change Butch's mind once. i forced him to come see the epic disaster 2012. though it seemed only us and 2 other friends saw it for the subversive dark comedy that it was, pissed ourselves laughing alway through a full and mostly silent cinema. i thought we could relive the magic with HollowMan.
as the characters in the film were slashed and burned to only the chick from Adventures in Babysitting and the dude from The Goonies, things exploded and the credits rolled, butch ended the night with a surprise
"that was great. i thoroughly enjoyed that."
"you... what? really?"
"yeah. what time you fly tomorrow?"
"3pm."
"coffee tomorrow?"
"sure"
“If I die, pretend I said something deep and clever.”
in the mix tape series of posts i've suggested music that will help set the tone for making with the sexy times. i also suggested what not to listen to when entertaining gentlemen callers.
Bjork is on top of that list of the unsexy. incredible artist, but unless it's a remix she is one hell of a boner-killer
ignore that for now because holy fuckballs the video for Mutual Core is amazing!
you are on show for the whole hour sometimes right up until your cumshot/orgasm (however real or fake that may be). it ain't over 'til the fat bastard cums so don't fuck like you fuck at home.
a month before heading overseas i had been asked to shoot a porno. after working at a clients with the Elk a few weeks earlier i thought it would be a good idea to do the scene together. it would also be a good chance to recover from the terrible 'blind date' porn shoot i did a few years ago. also, new pics and more exposure would be good for scoring more work overseas.
plus, shooting a porno with your boyfriend, having both your genitals laid out like a splayed haddock mashed together and smeared all over the interwebs on a cheap porn site. how fucking romantic is that? totes, right?
shooting gay porn is a secondary business for all involved in Australia. no one devotes their entire career to porn. it's always a side project or a hobby. for this reason arranging a time when all involved could shoot the scene did not eventuate before the Elk had to fly to Ireland.
also there are also no fulltime porn stars. as the late great smart-ass Erik Rhodes stated over an over to the army of many people asking him about a career in porn - you don't make money being an actor, you do the movies to boost your profile and make all your money hookin'. private shows. by the hour. that's where the money is
in the following weeks i received calls, texts and emails to arrange a shoot. i asked for pictures of the other model and i would agree if i thought the scene could work. (i.e., if he wasn't an emaciated crackhead twink that would make my cock invert to a fanny). the photographer had no idea how to attach an image until the 5th email and when he did it was 28billionMB and a file only InDesign could open. who the fuck has InDesign? what photographer uses InDesign to showcase their work?
still, they pushed on until i got a different photographer and a different model. busy as hell in my final weeks i took no bookings on the day of the shoot.
i turned up outside the location, some guys house, impressing all involved by rolling in on a motorbike. the pornographer was a great guy. the other model, though a lot more prettied up than the sexy scruffy little man in the shots i was emailed days ago, was still hot. i could have jumped him right there in the kitchen, unfortunately the pornographer had other ideas
the website was not up and running yet so they were still fleshing out a few ideas on how it would run. one idea was the interview process. corbin fisher, randy blue and that creepy old dude who sucks off every muscle guy he can find while winking into the camera all do the meet-and-greet thing. for some, it's terribly dull. but if their model becomes the next big name in porn they can milk the guts out of all the footage they have
"now i'm just going to get you both on the couch and ask you some questions."
the mere notion of an interview bored the tits off me so i slumped on the sofa like some half eaten octopus. my remaining four limbs, arms over the back of the sofa and legs spread wide, ready for some old school japanime tentacle porn.
"take your arm down. i want it to look like you've never met before. i don't want you to look comfortable with each other…"
and this is where i died.
we were getting familiar. too familiar. you talk too much. i don't want to get to know you. nothing personal, but let me just see you as a peice of meat, we can have tea and scones after i hatefuck the shit out of you.
it's such a bore gets me really sore i don't need this fucking world
the 10 minute interview process that went from name (lies) and occupation (more lies) to favourite sexual positions (more lies. mostly exaggeration). my disinterest grew as the tedious interview process groaned slowly onward. my answers ever more self-righteous and smug as a Mumford and Sons lyric desperate not to sound christian. this dragged out to almost on hour. by the time we got to word association, i was infuriated. glaring down the barrel of the camera grunting monosyllabic answers (if any answer at all).
i had some warning this porn shoot might be a bad idea. the producers' previous website was not good. actually, it was quite horrid. they had shot some men i know from around Sydney, very hot men, and filmed them with no thought for lighting, lenses, framing or indeed any of the basic principles of photography. they managed to dwarf these hot men into hideously deformed sex badgers wanking their midgetted cocks for no ones pleasure other than the cruel bastard out to publicly humiliate them on a site designed on MSPaint
to tread past further warning to this bad decision, the Elk had shot a scene for them many years ago and it didn't work out for him either. once he met the other model and heard him speak all attraction was gone. when he opened his mouth a purse fell out, the Elk's erection falling to the floor along with it.
still, i charged forward. forward to death. the only joy had was snarling at anybody watching this clip hoping they would recognise my Johnny The Homicidal Maniac t-shirt
shirts off. some stills.
we moved the shoot to a spare bedroom. it was a small room, only slightly larger than the double bed and stained pine side table it contained. it that had all the sexual chemistry of a disused highway Motor Inn, probably less so, because all the effort that went in to gay-ing up of the decor barely masked an odour suggesting Grandma just died in here. i shut my eyes and we continued to grope and paw each other
"i want to be looking up at you," the pornographer said, "get up on the bed."
with barely one foot each on the bed we nearly tumbled off. this was no bed. it was a trampoline with a cheap quilt. we managed to get back on top but it was obvious by my dwindling erection that this just didn't work. if i enjoyed sex with young children then maybe fucking on a giant jumping castle might have kept my cock throbbing hard, unfortunately all effort was diverted to our quivering calf muscles desperately struggling to keep us upright. even with my occasional interest in plushie porn, fucking on top of a giant Doogal is not my idea of raunch
to make the scene even more worserer, it was 50 million degrees in the room. and i'm talking celsius. pilled up with the handfuls of viagra, i was like burning up in the sun.
yes, i'm a princess!
yes i'm a fucking delicate snowflake!
i will wilt and wilt i did. i was going to feint.
i prayed for it to end. so many times i was about to shoot out an arm to stop me from collapsing. luckily i didn't for i would have punched a hole through the horridly inoffensive nondescript mass produced painting of a sunset hanging on the wall, or tangle an arm in the venetian blind or worse have us both topple through the sliding mirrored doors of the wardrobe. similar to visions of the opening kill in Suspiria i imagined footage of two hookers sliced to pieces with shattered glass would guarantee years memberships if not spawned some great gifs on necrophile tumblers
"fuck this" and i lays both down. now comfortable, perfectly, no longer under direction, but it was too late. for every 5 minutes of fluffing myself, i was granted 30 seconds of boner. sadly, not enough to fuck his hot arse, not enough to string a decent scene together. the viagra didn't help. a cockring didn't help. even eating his meaty hairy arse didn't help. and it was a hot arse
i looked down at my cock, all sweaty, shrivelled and stubborn. pleading with him as he chose to hide. he had gone all Linda Evangelista on me, "we don't get out of bed for less than $10,000 a day" he winked up at me through that fleshy burqa of foreskin. well, we were barely making a 50th of that, so i had no hope in convincing him that this will benefit us both. we both knew yesterday i earned ten times what i will earn today from this shoot, and in roughly the same amount of time too
did i mention i was the top? no? so not being able to follow through with all the comments i made earlier about drowning the other model headfirst in my cum like a sack of kittens in high tide were made all the more embarrassing with how arrogantly i threatened
the other model blew his load spectacularly. gagged with every breath. he did a smashing job. it was just a shame i couldn't smash his hole. the pornographer too is not to blame. the way they wanted to shoot the scene just isn't how i work. plus i'd had been working like a muthafukka for weeks now, i had an apartment to empty in 48 hours, i had a country to leave, friends to say goodbye too and i was sure as hell missing the Elk
excuses aside, i willingly charged forward to my own death in the porn industry. wait? what porn industry? this is Australia. there is no fucking porn industry and this is for a site that still isn't online after years of shooting content.
so what do i care? well, really, i don't. in 48 hours i will on a plane to another country. another hemisphere. woohoo! screw you guys i'm fucking out of here!
i don't need this fucking world! i don't need this fucking world!!!
tired of hosting incalls where cracked out johns spill a bottle of amyl all over your thousand-thread egyptian cotton sheets? here's a handy home hint. your hello kitty pillow cases are safe once more
damn pleased to know good friend Malcolm Ingram has got the funding needed to continue with the documentary about New York's gay bathhouse The Continental.
if you haven't seen his previous documentaries, you should definitely check out Small Town Gay Bar, because it's awesome