Wednesday, August 31, 2011
When you see foam at the edges of someone's mouth....RUN!!! You can sort out the details later.
I've been in this business for a long time. I routinely hear back from directors, producers, cameramen and other actors about how easy I am to work with and how versatile I am socially...and sexually. I'm shy, I'm wary of club appeareances where I don't have a task to keep me occupied and I keep to myself, but I'm always professional.
Someone asked me recently when my first scene with Sean Cody was, and I realized I've been doing porn for 10 years. I've encountered a lot of amazing professionals and talented artists, pornographers and marketing geniuses. From the beautiful, the hunky and the funny, to the vain, the roided and the shallow, I thought I'd handled it all.
So, this morning, like so many other mornings in that special California sun (like no other place LA's light is movie magical), I gingerly approached a young porn producer who was literally foaming at the mouth. In normal situations, I see mouth foam and I run. I've seen enough Zombie/Rabies movies to know better, but this time, against my better judgement, I held my ground.
After all, I'd been in touch with Mr. Price(less - his adjective not mine) for a couple of months now. He had (sort of) coordinated my plane ticket and was responsible for directing two scenes I was going to shoot with him this week. I've worked with a lot of adorable weirdos. How bad could this be? And as I got closer, I realized he was actually brushing his teeth. Why anyone meeting a future employee would wander out to greet me mid-brush is a little odd but well, it is porn after all. So, yes, it's ok. It's just toothpaste.
But, I should have screamed "RABIES!!!" and run. There had been so many problems up to this point; Hurricane Irene being the least troublesome of them. Mr. Price had scheduled me to come a couple days earlier (well it was actually someone he works with, but he was involved in the planning). He had misinterpretted my messages and overbooked me for too many extra days in LA but I have good friends to crash with, so I dealt. When Irene hit, my flight was cancelled. He was mad at me and asked if I could fly out anyway (I should have told him to watch Devil Wears Prada). He told me I should rebook. I did, and called him immediately to confirm my new schedule. He said great and that he would get me a hotel for the first night (which, after reminding him once my plane touched down, he grudgingly did). And that's where the rub came: after the initial booking, everything started to happen begrudgingly, as though I were putting him out like an annoying relative staying too long after the last night of Xmas. But I was the one being hired to do work for him...his project, his initiative, his plan.
I mean, there had been so many organizational guffaws at this point that I should have known. Other models "cancelling" (in this economy? really?) Times of scenes changing. And then the blame game came. If anyone knows me, they know I'm commonly reffered to as a busy beaver by friends. I'm good at being busy; I'm ALWAYS early and I work hard to get a lot of work done as fast as I can. So, toothbrush in hand, Mr. Price and I started a shouting match in which he tried to blame me for his organizational ineptitude. A crew member showed up and witnessed our shouting match (poor guy). "You shouldn't have rebooked." "Uhm, you told me to"
"I didn't know when you were coming." "Uhm, I gave you my new info on the phone and you said you would book the hotel for that night"
"I didn't know if you were even coming today" "Uhm, we've been texting all morning and I flew 3,500 miles in search of work. When did I give off that impression?"
"The other model had to cancel." "Oh, that's ok, I actually spent some time and found two other models in LA willing to work with us at the price you quoted me."
And then things went red. He had messed up big time and backed into a corner like a rabid animal just started to attack, my character, my (dis-)honesty, my work ethic...I walked. You can be as annoying as you want, but you can't treat me disrespectfully in a professional setting (unless it's called for in the scene). ;)
Anyway, I'm in LA, stuck without work 'til Friday. If any Porn Directors or Art Buyers are in need, i can work with my hands til then. Oh and if anyone wants to get Mr. Price a present that he clearly needs if he's going to succeed in the future, I recommend the monthly view.
BSD trivia question of the week: What is the large green object above?
Hint: If you said its my great grandma Caydie Keller's favorite glass dildo (an early Mormon polygamist Caydie gave birth to 9 children before croaking at 40) you'd be wrong. I keep that family heirloom in a very special place.
If you guessed telephone insulator . . . you're correct! These peculiar glass cones, common in antique stores across the United States, were originally used to protect and insulate early telegraph and telephone wires from wooden poles-- an especially handy attribute in rainstorms.
Thanks to reader Rob for snapping this pic and sending it to Big Shoe Diaries. If you have a phallic family heirloom you'd like to share with readers, feel free to email your submission to Colby at firstname.lastname@example.org.
Tuesday, August 30, 2011
Ugh. Sometimes I really hate Blogger. This was supposed to post last week, when the theme for the day was everything "bull". More from artist Patrick Short, cloning minotaurs à la Anthony Goicolea, Texas style.
Monday, August 29, 2011
Sunday, August 28, 2011
Friday, August 26, 2011
Thursday, August 25, 2011
While there may be no greater pleasure on Earth than the ability to chew your own hair, I can't say bangs did much for my sex appeal. Model Philip Scherrer on the other hand, knows how to pull off the perfect Goldilocks mop top. Vidal Sasson swoon.
Above: Colby and Buddacup (circa my own stringy moptop)
Below: more photos of model Philip Scherrer, courtesy of photographer David Vance.
Wednesday, August 24, 2011
Nothing says "good morning Tennessee" like a heaping, steaming canister of bull semen. The canisters above fell off a Greyhound bus Tuesday morning as it attempted to make a sharp turn entering the on-ramp of Interstate 65 in Nashville. According to WKRN News, "the load originated in Columbus, Ohio, and was en route for a breeding facility in Laredo, Texas". A single canister typically carries 300-400 "straws" of sperm, each containing one milliliter of liquid. According to a Greyhound spokesman, it's not uncommon for the bus to carry bull semen. Each straw ranges from $18-$50 in price, with an estimated total value of $80,000 for the entire roadside cum-dump, more than the lifetime value of my entire porn career.
In a related story, a Springfield woman was recently charged with stealing $100,000 dollars worth of burger baby sauce from her former employer, an agro-business genetics facility. I've seen some pretty cum-hungry hos in my day, but this woman takes the cake (or cock I should say). Watch the nervous nelly newscaster twirl his jizz-filled swizzle stick in horror:
Tuesday, August 23, 2011
If you haven't already guessed it, I'm a big fan of photographer Laurent Champoussin, and not just because he takes the time to make incredible art all about me orgasming, or because of the beautiful and generous gift he recently gave me, a print from his Lovestoned series (pictured above), but because his work is poetic, quiet and sensual-- all of the things I like best about myself.
If that sounds a little narcissistic, well, sorry. In an effort to prepare myself for the soul-crushing prospect of future job interviews I've been experimenting with perfecting techniques of self-promotion. Even as a joke, its difficult for me to do. I'd rather promote the people who deserve it, like Laurent. Take for example, "What Difference Does it Make?" a series of photographs from his recent trip to Yorkshire:
To experience some of Laurent's best travel photography, I'd highly recommend taking a few minutes to scroll through "Everything's Going to be Alright!". A small sample below:
You've seen me flip-fuck. But have you seen me flip-book? Photographer and perennial blog favorite Laurent Champoussin made an incredible flip book of moi, Colby, climaxing. The book gets its title from the 80s hit (and my new favorite song) "Oh Là Là" by electro-pop sensation Elli et Jacno. Watch the video below and you'll know why. Elli somehow managed to steal all her best moves from me! I've had a long standing theory that dance is instrumental in solving the riddle of time travel. Now I know the key to breaking the space-time continuum: the splits.
Monday, August 22, 2011
Some wear their heart close to their sleeve and some, like Colby, wear it close to their belt.
A man unwittingly blows off his nuts with the aide of his girlfriend's phallic pink pistol. Homoerotic? Tragic? Its like Shakespeare in the age of Reality TV.